


Nashville

by orphan_account



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:16:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Nashville

It’s late and cold outside. He doesn’t think he’s ever gonna get used to just how fucking cold it is. Winter in Nashville, bone deep cold and he doesn’t think his feet have been warm this whole time. Pining for LA like he never thought he would, but then he has now. Stretched out on the couch, the heel of Chris’ hand pressed hard into the arch of his foot, fingers digging just behind his toes and he’s fucking purring. Back arching up off the couch, fingertips slipping on leather as he tries to get a grip and fails.

“Fuck.”

Just about all he can manage and he figures he can put up with getting his ass frozen off every morning heading to the studio for _this_. For nights holed up, the TV just some noise in the background as toes curl around fingers, knuckles kneading harder and that smile on Chris’ lips. Eighteen hour days when he could happily rip Chris’ head off and stare down laughing at the bloody mess that was left, when Chris would throw his hands up and walk out muttering some shit to get coffee only to come back thirty minutes later to pull him into a hug whispering _Love you man_ against his skin and they’d get back at it.

This album the single most important thing either of them has done and it shows. In the lines that crease Chris’ brow and the shadows that stain the skin under his eyes. But then they get it, it gels, works, whatever fucking cliché you wanna use and it’s good and they drink til they can’t see and wake in the morning tangled together, sweat and come staining sheets and skin to head out to do it all again. To sit in a tiny assed room with no windows and ages old coffee and frustration seeping from the walls, try to capture what fuck knows how many before them have tried and failed to do and knowing that they will.

Not least because they have this and every other time. Not so stolen moments in between takes, when Chris’ voice just gives the fuck out and his own fingers bleed, when they have to eat, need to pee, get coffee and some time in Chris’ truck on the back lot. And that’s why it will work, why it has to, why the last eight years was exactly as long as it needed to be.

Smile creeping onto his lips as each toe gets pulled in turn, joints cracking and he thinks maybe Chris’ hands on his feet have a direct line to his dick. Digging his toes into that fleshy point just above the waist of Chris’ jeans, heel pressing just below to have fingers hold him _just so_ as Chris’ hips buck up.

Elbows and knees scattering bottles and pizza cartons to the floor, beer spilled to pool and dry on oak flooring that was a damn good idea in the summer and will make him curse in the morning cause the heat hasn’t warmed it yet. Cursing now when nails catch his skin, buttons torn from holes so worn they tear, denim burning as it’s pulled too hard over his hips to bunch at his knees, fighting to kick them free only to give up when impatient hands press him down and teeth bite “Quit wrigglin’” into lips already chewed raw.

This ain’t comfy, already feeling the bite of a cramp in the back of his thigh, but it’s perfect all the same. Fingers tangling too tight in Chris’ hair, pulling him places he knows damn well he won’t go but trying anyway. Teeth leaving crescents he’ll still feel in the morning, tongue marking a path from ribs to navel to the jut of his hip, to bite a little more until he calls Chris some name or other and breath is puffed in a laugh against his skin.

A half fight for control he only wins when Chris wants it that way, when he can push thighs up high, thumb pressing into that place behind Chris’ knee, bite on his ankle and watch as his fingers slide too fucking slowly inside. Tonight not that night as his head hits the arm of the couch, hips lifting as jeans are pulled free and his legs pushed wide. Those same kneading fingers riding from knee to the crease of his thigh and back, no care given to the bruises it might leave when he digs his heel hard into Chris’ thigh, scratches nails over the back of Chris’ neck. 

Cold and jetlag and too long days forgotten, pushing just to get pushed back, scratching to get bitten, neither giving much of a damn for the early call that’ll come too fucking soon. Low table kicked across the floor and the throw from the couch dragged off to land in a heap to break a too hard fall and still wood jars bone, forces breath from lungs already starving.

“Son of a bitch….” Bitten into his lips, the answering _uh huh_ almost lost in the crease of his thigh as feet slip over wrinkled cotton. Sure if he pulls any harder he’s gonna come away with a handful of hair when fingers dig too fucking hard into the inside of his thigh and they won’t make it to the bed, won’t make it off the floor. Not til this is done, not til fingers ease the way and his thighs hold Chris, the floor leaving its mark on the small of his back and the come dries on his belly.

Then they can fall again, this time onto a mattress that already bears the dip of each of their bodies and they can tell each other what they already know as the sun takes the night away.


End file.
